


Puddlejumper, Queen of the Desert

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-11
Updated: 2009-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adventures of Puddlejumper, Queen of the Desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puddlejumper, Queen of the Desert

**Author's Note:**

> A fusion with the movie _Priscilla, Queen of the Desert_, from which several lines are taken and/or re-worked. Basically what happened is that Aesc and Sheafrotherdon are evil.

"Well, that was fucking charming, you gutless pack of dickheads!"

Rodney's set-design was flawless, his choreography innovative, and his interpretation of Abba's oeuvre so transformative that he had known fans to approach him after shows with tears in their eyes to tell him that Benny and Björn would have been truly moved if they'd only been there. And yet where had his talent taken him? Not to the Sands, not to Caesar's Palace, not to any place where his show would be met with the respect it deserved—but to a tiny, third-rate casino sandwiched between a motel and a launderette, where his heart-felt rendition of Mamma Mia had earned him a beer can between the eyes.

"Come on, Mitzi," John said, taking him by the elbow and trying to steer him off stage. Underneath the carefully applied pink cupid's bow of his lipstick, John's mouth was set in a grim line, and the feathers in his hair were askew—a sure-fire sign that there'd be an epic shit fit from John once they were off-stage.

"No," Rodney said. "No! These good people paid for a performance, hmm? I think they should get their money's worth!" He planted his hands on his carefully padded hips and glared out past the footlights at the dimly lit tables, the tiny audience made up mostly of drunk hicks who'd stared blearily at the posters and wandered in thinking that John's tits were real.

"I don't think that's such a good idea," John said from between gritted teeth, and yeah, okay, he was going to freak out later but what on earth did he think _Rodney_ was going to—

"Show us your pink bits!" yelled one guy in the second row, who was wearing a cowboy hat so large Rodney was sure he had to be compensating for something.

Rodney made a show of considering the proposition, one carefully manicured finger tapping at his chin. "No," he said eventually, "I don't think I will. Now do you know why this microphone has such a long cord? So it's easily retrieved after I've _shoved it up your ass_!"

***

The manager of the Daedalus Casino and Nightclub—Caldwell, a man so obviously sexually repressed that Rodney was surprised the tightness of his sphincter hadn't caused internal injuries—ordered them off the premises before Rodney had managed to wriggle his way out of his pantyhose.

"You can't do this!" Rodney shrieked at him. "I am an internationally renowned artist! I'll have you know that I have appeared in off-Broadway productions! I was once nominated for a _Tony_."

"We have a contract," Ronon said, crossing his arms over a chest that was impressive even before you added the falsies and the sequins. "Three months, two shows a night, Sunday matinee. You signed it."

"You're gone," Caldwell said again flatly. And okay, so he was probably the kind of guy who went home and fucked a stuffed animal because he couldn't get it up for anyone else, but his security people were big and stupid and carried poorly-concealed guns—and mean in a way that meant even John (who'd spent a couple of years in the Air Force before he'd decided that being Pussy Galore for a living would be an even more entertaining way of fucking with his father's head) would have a hard time taking on all of them in a fight.

There was a brief scuffle and some yelling, and then the stage door closed behind them with a resounding and final bang. Nights in Vegas could get surprisingly cold, the desert sky above them stealing back all the heat it had poured out during the day, and despite his pink fake fur jacket, John was shivering next to Rodney.

Rodney sighed. It would be at least four hours before Zelenka was finished with his act (the little man prided himself on being the Czech Republic's answer to Siegfried and Roy, only with fewer big cats and more pigeons), and while the three of them could get a cab back to the rathole of an apartment they shared, it was kind of hard to afford the fare when you were all still owed three weeks' pay.

"Well." Ronon sat down on the top of his leopard-print suitcase, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and pulled out a nail-file. "Either of you ladies have any bright ideas?"

Rodney sighed. He'd been trying to avoid thinking about that phone call, but, well... "I may have a plan," he said.

Ronon snorted.

***

"So where is this gig, exactly?" John squinted at Rodney from across the booth. Between the three of them, they'd managed to scrape together enough change to keep them in foul coffee in the little diner across the street while they waited for Radek and his shag-pile-carpeted van.

"Well, just keep in mind that it's four weeks long, Equity minimum, two shows a night, accommodation included, and all you can eat in the staff buffet." Rodney added a fifth packet of sugar to his coffee in a futile attempt to transform it into something drinkable.

"Where, McKay?" Ronon said. One impeccably plucked eyebrow arched upwards. "Don't think anywhere else in Vegas is going to take us on."

"Listen!" Rodney said, raising a finger by way of declamatory aid. "Just because there was that whole Celine Dion... incident, doesn't mean that—"

"Mitzi," John drawled, with just enough of a warning in his voice that Rodney sighed and huffed and gave in.

"Blowing Rock, New Mexico."

John and Ronon stared at him in silence.

"That's the spirit," Rodney said weakly.

***

It was not, Rodney pointed out, as if they had that much choice. They owed three months rent on the crappiest apartment in Vegas, they'd pissed off the owners of three casinos, two bars and Celine Dion, and it took them an awful lot more than they were bringing in presently just to keep Pussy in hair gel each week. ("Fuck off," John said pleasantly.) Piss and moan as John and Ronon might—and believe you me, they could do that with the best of them—both of them had to see the logic in getting out of town until tempers cooled and they had earned themselves a bit of a financial cushion.

If Rodney had another reason for heading back to Blowing Rock, well, that wasn't something either of them needed to know just yet.

***

Ronon, being Ronon, sang while packing.

Rodney was this close to committing justifiable homicide with a pair of pinking shears. "_Must_ you do that?" The noise was making it hard for him to properly sort and pack his collection of wigs.

"Yeah," Ronon said, "I _must_."

"Felicia, Mitzi," John said, elbowing past with an armful of silks and satins and what looked suspiciously like several throwing knives—truly, John had more neuroses than any other person Rodney had ever met. "Back in your kennels, ladies, please."

"He started it!" Rodney said, all too aware of how childish he must sound and not really caring. Ronon was sticking his tongue out at him.

"And I'm finishing it," John said pleasantly. "We have more important things to think about."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," John said, sitting on his suitcase until it closed with a protest over a mound of pre-shrunk black t-shirts, make-up bags and sinfully tight jeans. "Like how the hell we're going to get to Buttfuck, Nowhere."

Ronon raised a hand, apparently oblivious to the fact that said hand was brandishing a pair of wickedly sharp, purple stilettos at the same time. "Solved it."

***

"You are fucking kidding me."

"Nope." Ronon looked annoyingly smug, as if this was something he should be proud of.

John folded his arms and tilted his head to one side. "I don't know, Mitz. It could work."

"You really _are_ fucking kidding me," Rodney yelped. "It's a school bus!"

"Not any more."

"It's bright yellow!"

Ronon shrugged. "We can paint it. Few new spark plugs and the engine should be as good as new."

Rodney buried his face in his hands and let out an earth-shattering sigh. "How, in the name of Eartha Kitt, did I ever end up with you two incompetents?"

Ronon grinned at John. "Got it from those Swedish tourists. Lars, Lars and Lars?"

"The ones with the..." John sketched out some anatomical features that were surely exaggerated.

"Oh yeah," Ronon said, and the grin broadened into something that could only be categorised as shit-eating. "They were pretty grateful."

Rodney sighed, and dropped his head back to look up at the clear blue Nevada sky. He might as well make the best of this. "Well, girls," he said, "start your engines."

***

They couldn't leave right away, of course. There was luggage to stow, supplies of Evian and Doritos and moisturiser to stock in the little portable fridge, and John even managed to charm one of the fag hags from the Daedalus' stage crew—Cadman, her name was—into helping him rip out some of the sagging old seats in order to replace them two sets of bunk beds, tastefully separated from the rest of the bus by some gold, sparkly curtains.

The repainting attracted onlookers—it wasn't every day that an old yellow school bus was repainted bright purple by two queens in hot pants while Rodney sat in a deck chair with a margarita and a parasol and directed proceedings—and by Wednesday morning, there was a small crowd of well-wishers come to see them off.

Radek presented them with a gift-basket of vodka and hugged each of them in turn. "Farewell, my friends, I wish you all the luck in the world," he said, maudlin enough that Rodney suspected he'd find one of the bottles in the basket half-empty, "though I suspect that we will find your dessicated bodies in the desert many years from now, half-eaten by vultures."

"Buck _up_, Radek," John said, vaguely appalled, slapping him hard enough on the back to make him stagger. Radek should have remembered that the only strong emotion John could stand was that expressed through the musical stylings of Abba.

***

"Are we there yet?" John was painting his toe-nails a very fetching shade of deep red, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

"It's been thirty minutes!" Rodney's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel; god, he hated driving at the best of times, but steering a purple-painted school bus through the remnants of the morning rush hour could not, precisely, be called the best of times.

"Christ," Ronon said, "That long? I call Happy Hour."

"It's nine in the morning!" Rodney yelped.

"Make mine a Mother's Ruin," John said, sitting back and wriggling his toes with a look of supreme satisfaction on his face.

Rodney groaned. Why, exactly, had he had the bright idea to give up being a solo performer and work as part of a group? Switching hairspray brands must have done something horrible to his precious, precious brain cells.

***

Somewhere around hour eleven, they ran out of alcohol.

***

Ronon passed out first, curled up under a blue satin comforter on one of the beds at the back of the bus. With his face slackened out in sleep, his hair braided back neatly from his face and faint, whuffling snores drifting out of his bunk with each exhalation, he seemed very young—almost innocent.

Appearances, Rodney had learned long ago, could be very deceiving.

John had taken over driving shortly before they hit the New Mexico border, keeping the bus cruising along at its top speed of 55 miles per hour. He seemed to have taken a liking to it, and had started referring to it as 'old girl' and 'Puddlejumper, Queen of the Desert.'

Rodney didn't want to know.

Despite the concentration demanded by driving, and the distraction provided the desert landscape unfolding outside their window—pure pigments of blue sky and red earth and black asphalt, rich and deep as the colours in a child's paint set—John demanded entertainment, and the only tape that the bus's ancient tape deck hadn't chewed up and spat out was Queen's _Greatest Hits._

Rodney was not that big a fan of irony.

"Another round of I Spy?"

"God, no."

"Twenty Questions?"

"Please, we only just got Ronon to pass out. With him around, it's like having to share close quarters with Joan Rivers and her demon spawn." Rodney's tone had possibly been more caustic than the question warranted.

John shot him a sharp look. "All right. What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, Pussy."

"Don't you _nothing, Pussy_ me, Mitzi. Look at you. I haven't seen you this miserable since Kookie Kavanagh got her own Bette Midler tribute show."

"That bitch is such a hack," Rodney spat, before forcing his shoulders to relax. "No, I'm—honestly, John, I'm fine. I'm just worried about the show. It's a whole new place, and we haven't done any rehearsals yet."

John shrugged expansively. "We'll have two full weeks there, for Christ's sake. You've choreographed stuff for Nathan Lane in less time. Now what's your problem?"

Rodney shifted in his seat. "It's—I just want this show to be good. That's all. It's got to be good."

John glared at him, eyes narrowed and sharp, and Rodney was very much aware that despite John's penchant for fake fur and stripper heels, he wasn't actually stupid. "You're this worked up about putting on a show in the middle of blood nowhere? Tell me, Mitzi my darling, how the fuck _did_ you get this job? Or more to the point, who the fuck put you up to doing it? It's not your usual style, leaving behind the bright lights and the big city."

Rodney sighed miserably. What the hell; they were both going to find out soon enough, anyway. "My wife."

John _har har har_-ed one of his hideous, bone-rattling laughs. "And what, you scared the poor bitch so much he fled town rather than–"

"_No_," Rodney said, and even he could hear the hint of desperation in his voice now. "My _wife_. Teyla. I'm—I'm married."

John hit the brakes hard enough that Ronon fell out of bed and broke three nails.

***

They made a pit stop at a little roadside place that sold gas and Pabst Blue Ribbon (handed over by an attendant with a mullet who'd looked at their money as if it would need to be disinfected before he could touch it with more than the tip of thumb and forefinger), and Rodney found that he could down three cans of it, awful as it was, when required to relive something as depressing as the last days of his marriage when sitting at an even more depressing rest stop just off the highway.

"And so then we both realised that I wanted—well, I wanted a whole lot of things you're not likely to find living in the rural southwest, and Teyla had her heart set on going back to live with her people when she was done with college. Plus, the joint bank account ran dry, and we weren't—well, we weren't what we were any more. So we called it a day. We just never saw a need to, well, make the divorce formal." Rodney felt his chin come up as he prepared for whatever the other two would have to say to him.

John and Ronon both gaped at him, eyes identically round with shock.

"You and a _woman_?"

"Yes, Ronon, me and a woman."

"Seriously?" John's voice had risen to a curiously high pitch.

"Like, with a _vagina_?"

"Ronon, I am not discussing my wife's vagina with you."

John looked a little green around the gills. "We are not discussing anyone's... anyone's _lady softness_ with _anyone_."

Ronon rolled his eyes. "Your stage name is Pussy Galore."

"That is entirely different!" John's voice was definitely shrill now. "That's an homage to the women of James Bond."

"I need something to drink." Ronon clicked his fingers at Rodney. "Give me one of those beers."

"This is piss," Rodney said wrinkling his nose. "You don't want it."

"My ancestors were warriors," Ronon said, "and I can wear Vivienne Westwood heels without pain. I can handle a little Pabst."

"I need to lie down," John said.

"Sing it, sister," Rodney said grimly.

***

Map reading wasn't exactly John's forte, but once they got back on the road, he insisted that he'd found a short-cut along some minor roads that would get them to Blowing Rock ahead of schedule and save them some gas. "And I don't know about you ladies," he said, "but I am in dire need of a bubble bath."

All went well for a while, and the bus rattled down empty country roads, the air conditioner straining to keep up with the task of cooling them in the midst of the desert heat. Rodney was just starting to think that he was going to survive the road trip from Kerouac's worst nightmare when the engine let out a ferocious groaning noise, the bus shuddered from end to end and they ground to a halt in the middle of the road.

They all clambered down to investigate, though there wasn't much for them to see of the engine through the clouds of billowing steam.

"This, this can't be good," Rodney said.

"No shit," Ronon grunted.

"Oh, fuck off, Felicia," John said. "Come on, Rodney, didn't you used to do this kind of stuff back in college?"

"What? I was theoretical astrophysics, not engineering; and while, yes, I do understand the workings of the internal combustion engine in far more detail than the average person, there's not a lot I can do without tools or the ability to magic replacement parts out of thin air!"

"We could walk back some," Ronon offered.

"Yeah," John said, squinting back down the road in the direction they'd come. "I think I've got a pair of flats somewhere."

"And find who?" Rodney pointed out. "The only person we've seen in the last 200 miles was that pitbull in the wig selling that godawful beer."

John scratched the back of his neck. "This is not the desert I pictured myself dying in."

Ronon snorted and disappeared into the bus. For a moment, Rodney entertained the hope that Ronon had some arcane knowledge of school bus engineering that he'd never before revealed to the rest of them, but that hope was dashed when Ronon reappeared several minutes later in full, regal attire: make-up immaculate, wig coiffed, in a jewel-green dress that was slit up to the thigh.

John and Rodney stared at him, both with their hands on their hips.

"What?" Ronon said.

"I don't know that green's your colour," John said, just as Rodney shrieked, "What do you mean, _what_? We're stranded in the middle of the New Mexico desert, and you're playing fucking dress up!"

Ronon sniffed. "Well, if I have to go, I'm going to go in style. I want the newspaper headlines to say 'Fabulous Corpse Found in Desert.'"

Rodney was developing the mother of all migraines. "Okay," he said. "Fine. But I'm not spending my final hours on this earth sitting around staring at dirt with you two. We're going to put in some work."

***

The engine might have been shot, but the battery, and by extension the radio and speakers, still worked just fine. Soon, the red rocks around them were echoing back _if I'd known for just one second, you'd be back to bother me_, and Rodney was painstakingly guiding Pussy and Felicia through the now half-forgotten steps.

"No!" he shouted, "step, step, _change_, I don't think you have an ounce of natural rhythm in you, I—" And then he turned and shrieked because there was some kind of... of _person_ behind him, standing staring at them, and Rodney didn't know if there were miniature serial killers, but the New Mexico desert in the middle of the night seemed as good a place as any to stumble across one.

But then the figure moved and resolved itself, and Rodney saw that it was a kid—a boy, maybe eleven years old, wearing a stetson and a dust-soaked pair of old jeans. "Hallo!" the boy said. "I am Jinto!"

"Well, of course you are," Rodney said weakly, one hand pressed flat against his chest while he waited for his pulse to slow once more.

Jinto, it turned out, had been spending a week communing in the wilderness with his dad, Halling—a tall, hippy-ish looking sort of fellow who appeared from behind a rock when Jinto called to him. Neither of them, it turned out, were serial killers after all—Halling had some mechanical know-how, and seemed to find Felicia entrancing enough that he was more than willing to help them get their bus back on the road by morning.

"The road is too rough for this kind of vehicle," he told them, though his eyes were pretty firmly riveted to Ronon's neckline. "Travelling over it on a low tank of gas threw dirt up into the motor and blocked your fuel line. I can clear some of it out now, enough to get you another few hours down the road, but you'll need a whole new gas tank once we get back to the reservation."

Rodney blinked at him. "The reser—wait, are you two from Blowing Rock?"

"Yes!" Jinto said, beaming up at him. "We are both Athosian!"

Which was how Rodney learned that Jinto and Halling were both enrolled members of Teyla's tribal nation.

***

Halling declared that he would drive them the rest of the way there, having taken one look at the route John had traced out on the map in pencil and declaring it too long and rather unsafe. Neither Rodney nor John minded—they'd both had more than enough transportation-related drama for one day—and as for Ronon, he seemed to be getting a kick out of having a young apprentice around. Rodney had even had to bang on the roof of the bus once or twice, when Felicia and Jinto's roofside recreation of the major aria from _La Traviata_ was threatening to get out of hand—there was already so much fabric flowing out in the bus's wake, the bright blue train of Ronon's costume caught by the wind of their passage, that Halling couldn't see anything in their rear view mirrors.

"You don't mind him getting, you know. Involved in any of this?" John asked Halling.

"Oh no, not at all," Halling said mildly. "It's not often we get much western high culture out here," and either that bland poker face was genuine, or Halling was the best straight man Rodney had ever met, and Rodney was originally from Canada.

***

Shortly before noon, the bus sputtered its way to a spectacular and final halt in front of a bustling complex of buildings. A large neon sign out front proclaimed this to be the Little Creek Athosian Casino and Resort, and if it wasn't quite Vegas, it still looked like a mirage in the middle of the desert.

They'd not been there five minutes before an employee in a neatly-pressed uniform came out to meet them. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but you can't park here," she said.

"Sorry," Rodney said, wincing apologetically. "We've just been having engine... troubles." From behind him, the bus made a clunking noise that sounded as if some critical part of its engine had fallen free. "Could you direct me to Teyla Emmagan, please? We're the cabaret act from Las Vegas."

"Oh, sure!" The woman beamed up at him and tossed her thick braid of hair over her shoulder. "Just straight through into reception and take you right through. We'll have the valet—well, someone will move the bus for you."

"Thanks," Rodney said, and gave her his best smile, trying like hell to remain oblivious when she raised her eyebrows at the others as they clambered out of the smouldering wreckage of their transportation: John and Ronon in tiny shorts and sunglasses, Halling with his hair braided and his gaze fixed on Ronon's ass, and Jinto with gloss on his lips and pink nail varnish on his fingers.

He ducked hurriedly inside, into the blessed cool of full-blast air conditioning and the sounds that Rodney loved best: a busy bar, the ching of slot machines, the hum of neon—America at its most decadently excessive. The corridor down which the receptionist took him was decorated in a much more restrained style—muted browns and creams, with a plush carpet underfoot that swallowed up the sound of their footsteps—and the office into which she ushered him was even more elegant.

Tailor-made, obviously, to suit the petite woman sitting behind the glass and chrome desk: her skirt and blouse were obviously bespoke, and her coppery hair was twisted into a soft knot at the nape of her neck. She looked up from her laptop and smiled when she saw Rodney come in.

"Hallo, husband," Teyla said.

Rodney gave her a little half wave, and cleared his throat. "Hey, wife." He felt unaccountably nervous: as if the woman sitting in front of him hadn't been his best friend for more than a decade.

"You are late," Teyla said, rising and walking over to him. "I was just about to ready a search party. Did you all make it safely?"

"Yeah," Rodney said. "A little engine trouble, but the others are outside."

Teyla reached up and hugged him, drawing his forehead down to rest against hers, and Rodney had to swallow hard against the lump in his throat. He had missed this—missed the comfort that came from having a friend so close you kept no secrets from one another, passed no judgement.

"You look well," Teyla said, and the curve of her smile when she pulled away was sweet.

Rodney bounced a little on the soles of his feet. "Yes, well, you know. Cut and thrust of life in the big city and all that, have to lose some weight, keep trim. I can finally get into that old one piece of yours, you know the one, with the sun flowers?"

"You still have that?" Teyla said. "What on earth do you do with it?"

"That _Poseidon Adventure_ routine? You know, Shelley Winters." He mimed swimming at the same time that Teyla did also, and they both laughed. Rodney felt some knot inside him relax—he'd still have to explain to Ronon and John the biggest reason they were here, of course, the thing that was even more important than still-sort-of wife and a couple of weeks of pretending to be Gloria Gaynor in the middle of nowhere.

"Is she..." Rodney cleared his throat. "Is she ready? Does she know? About me, I mean."

"Yes, Rodney," Teyla said and took his hand, leading him from the room. "She is very much looking forward to meeting you."

***

Rodney's luck being what it was, John and Ronon found her first. They were out in the reception lobby, Ronon hunkering down to talk to her in front of a large poster that proclaimed the imminent arrival of Miss Mitzi del Bra, Ms Pussy Galore and the Infamous Felicia Jollygoodfellow, fresh from Vegas.

"My name's Ronon," he was saying gently to her, "What's yours?"

"Meredith," she said, and god, she looked just like Jeannie did when she was her age, curls and a gap-toothed smile and hint of mischief in the corner of her mouth, only with Teyla's darker skin and coppery hair. Rodney stood and stared, couldn't go any further, because there she was—there was his daughter.

John was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised as he looked at Rodney. He didn't seem angry—not that Rodney would have cared right now—but Rodney sensed that he would have some explaining to do later.

"Do you know my daddy?" Meredith asked Ronon.

"Yeah," Ronon said. "I think so."

"Does he have a boyfriend? Mommy says he has a boyfriend."

"Sort of." Ronon glanced up at John for a moment. "John's his—it's complicated, but John's his, sometimes."

"Oh, okay." Meredith seemed to consider it for a moment, then dismissed it with all childhood's blithe indifference. "Mommy doesn't have a girlfriend either. She has a Jennifer. Do you want to come play in my room? I've got Lego and Meccano."

"Not just yet, Meredith," Teyla said. "I want you to meet someone. Do you know who this is?"

Meredith came over to him, and without any hesitation, no trace of apprehension in her face, said "Hi, Daddy! Wanna come play with me and Ronon?", and oh, Rodney's heart was in big trouble.

"Okay," he said, looking from her face to Teyla's. "That would be—okay?"

Teyla nodded and smiled, and Rodney let his daughter lead them down the hallways to the private quarters.

Later, when they'd constructed castles and fortresses and deep moats guaranteed to keep out all but the most ferocious of dragons, Rodney asked Meredith, tentatively, "You know what I—what I am, right? Me and John and Ronon."

"Yeah," Meredith said as her princess vanquished both the evil dragon and the stinky knight in one fell swoop. "Mommy says you're the best in the business."

Rodney resisted the urge to preen. "Well, your mom was always prone to exaggera—actually, no, she's right. We _are_ the best in the business."

He clicked his fingers at John and Ronon, who were having what sounded like a ferocious battle on the Nintendo Wii. "Come on, you two. Time to get busy. We're going to give a command performance to young Mer here—show her what we can do."

"Sure," Ronon said, hauling himself to his feet.

"Just give me fifteen to do my hair," John said, grinning at Rodney and blowing him a kiss before scurrying off after Ronon in the direction of the changing rooms.

"Where are we going?" Meredith said, giggling when her dad swung her up into his arms and piggy-backed her down to the arena.

"Where do you think?" Rodney said, and screw platforms—who needed them when you could stand this tall on your own? "We're going to unleash the best in the business."


End file.
